


You're So Physical

by DarkmoonBoar



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Embarrassment, M/M, Oneshot, Oral Sex, Patches being Patches, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sexual Harassment, slight boot worship, slight leather kink, there are probably tags I missed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:44:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8524450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkmoonBoar/pseuds/DarkmoonBoar
Summary: The Chosen Undead falls for a little more than just for Patches' (not very well disguised) traps.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This one took forever to write but I hope it turned out alright. I actually hit a number of brick walls trying to get it juuuuust right. You could say
> 
> it put a boot up my ass.
> 
> I definitely injected my brand of humor into it, and there wasn't a single pike-related pun in the entire thing. You should all be quite proud of me, because I know I am.
> 
> Also, the set up is a bit long, but I PROMISE it's worth it. I PROMISE. It has the DarkmoonBoar guarantee.

Between the overwhelmingly strident sound of rushing water endlessly hitting stone and the creeping heaviness setting in his eyelids from sheer boredom, Patches hadn't noticed the other Undead, dressed in a long gray coat and hood, until the man stood just a bit too close to him by one of the switches in the Catacombs. Possibly the first thing he noticed was that the man's large eyes were an unusual shade of teal, but seemed to be trailing over him, scrutinizing him in his entirety. His shoulders were a bit broad, but it was clear underneath his garments that he was lithe, definitely not built like a warrior. He stood a bit shorter, and yet his chilling presence made him seem so much taller.

Then, it was his improperly broad grin. Attempting to smooth over the fact he nearly leaped out of his own skin, Patches exclaimed, “Good day! You look reasonably sane!” Admittedly, he nearly paused at the last word; the man quite clearly _leering_ at him looked like he had more than a few bats in the belfry, but he wasn't about to kick the hornet's nest now he was he? So, he attempted to continue, acting as collected as he could, “What are you doing in the Catacombs? Are you a cleric or something?”

The Chosen Undead chuckled, and despite that awful smirk he had twisting his face earlier, it sounded pleasant and musical. The overly wide grin faded into a more subtle, coy smile as he answered in a honeyed, smooth voice, “Do I look like a cleric to you?” Holding out his arms and arching an eyebrow, he looked Patches right in the eye with a far too amused expression, and for the first time, Patches actually really took in his appearance: a sheathed scimitar sat at his hip, he had a brilliant copper beard shadow, and had a stray tendril of auburn brown hair that dropped down near the side of his nose past his chin. His face was rather angular, with cheekbones that could slice, a jaw that could crush steel, and a rounded chin to compliment the severe angle his jaw made in the transition to it.

Well really, now that he thought about it, the man before him definitely didn't seem like the holy type. Not with the way he looked like at any moment he could reach over and feast heartily on him. In more ways than one, in fact. Patches half-expected the man to lick his chops and begin drooling, foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog.

It  _did_ make it that easier to come to the conclusion the best course of action was to lure him out on one of the bridges, push in a lever, and let him drop off into the void… not that it was a difficult decision to make to begin with. He especially seemed to be begging for it; no one would blame him for wanting to rid the world of such a detestable sort. And surely, he would have something worthwhile on his person.

After a second too long of contemplation, Patches shook himself out of his mind, attempting to act oblivious to how the man's chest shook as if he was fighting the urge to laugh. Or keeping himself from sloughing off his skin and reveal he was some sort of treacherous demon in disguise. “No, I can't say that you… do,” he blinked as his speech became more of a drone, his gaze becoming more of a vacant stare as he tried to remember where his thoughts were even taking him, “What a strange place to be, then.” He paused, reading the other Undead's face carefully before choosing his words. A wanderer, perhaps?

“Ohhh! I know what it is. You've come for the trinkets, haven't you?” Patches questioned the Chosen Undead with a sly tone in his voice, giving him a knowing, wily grin. 

Stroking his beard stubble and creasing his brow, the eerie man replied flatly, “No. I can't say that I have.” Now it was much easier to talk to him when he wasn't wearing a smile that could stop a raging drake in its tracks. Still, he had an odd twinkle in his eyes, as if there was far more than what he was letting on, as if he was privy to something he wasn't about to divulge.

“Well, whatever it is,” he tried to smooth over the conversation and his own building trepidation, “This place is treacherous. Do watch your step.” Patches flashed the other Undead a lopsided smile that was promptly returned. 

“Why, thank you for the concern! I should ah, continue my journey,” he trilled in a nearly sing-song, saccharine voice, briefly flicking a hand before turning around and going back from whence he came. The fact this random wanderer had something up his sleeve grated on the black leather clad rogue; the thought of being bested by someone equally shifty had his hackles up.

Plus,  _that_ face. His smile was offensive enough, but the fact it was on such a  _stupidly_ attractive face made it all the worse. He just  couldn't handle it.

So when about a half hour passed by, or so it felt, when he saw the shorter man's slender form near one of the bridges that could be turned on its side with a switch, Patches knew he had to do something. But the wanderer barely set foot on it before he began dashing across as if he knew, as if the rat bastard  _ knew _ the entire time. By the time Patches had the switch entirely in the column, the Chosen Undead had made it across, very much standing, very much unscathed. Though he half-expected the man to turn stop to wave at Patches just to mock his failure, he did no such thing, and continued on as if nothing had happened. 

As if nothing had occurred at all.

That  _ rotten _ son of a bitch. He could he have possibly known?

Naturally, he didn't see him again until he made it down to the Tomb of Giants, shrouded in the dark, by a ledge where he had kicked down a rather foolish girl and the two even more foolish escorts accompanying her. He strode on by, gingerly holding out a queerest looking skull-shaped lantern far out in front of him with his left hand, scimitar in his right. Stopping in his tracks, he pivoted his body towards Patches, and gave him a clever smile that the light of the lantern distorted with shadow. The light had him shielding his squinting eyes.

“Fancy seeing you here!” the Chosen Undead raucously laughed, the edges of his eyes crinkling considerably in mirth. He approached until he was a reasonable distance away (thank the gods), and held the lantern out to the side so he wasn't blinding the sneaky looter. It took a bit of effort for Patches to not wrinkle his nose in irritation and narrow his eyes in suspicion. 

“You again? Well, well. You've been a stranger. Ah, good to see you well, mate. I don't think I ever caught your name,” he greet the other man, maybe coming out a bit stilted in the process given the slightest quirking of the wanderer's lips. 

“That's because I never gave it,” the other Undead replied with an amiable, pleasant smile that wasn't forced but didn't look free of some kind of machinery either, “But. My name is Ira. Perhaps I may have yours?” His head tilted sharply to the side. The question was actually genuine; it sounded a bit unsure, as if he didn't expect any reply in turn. Or if he expected to be immediately kicked off the ledge, which, to be honest, was sorely tempting. 

Gripping his spear and his greatshield a little tighter and clearing his throat, as if that would prevent the sensation of his skin crawling with the desire to plunder the wanderer's corpse, he answered with the most honest-sounding innocent glee he could muster with a toothy grin, “I'm Trusty Patches, the one and only!”

The man gave him the once over before giving him another one of those terrifying smirks. For a moment, and maybe it was just the way shadows played across his face between the lantern and his hood and the way his behavior got under his skin, but he swore the other Undead fluttered his eyelashes and licked his  _ teeth _ . But it was so quick he couldn't confirm it, and nonetheless even the thought filled him with abhorrently conflicting feelings. 

It made him want to kick him down into the pit below twice as hard.

“You came at the perfect time,” the smarmy rogue explaining, feeling awfully satisfied with the plan he was hatching, “There's a fine stash of treasure right down that hole. I found it first, but… well, we're friends now. I'll split it with you!” Using his spear, he pointed down the steep incline, down to the ground below where three bodies lay with a glowing prism stone. Of course, it was so dark the illumination provided by the skull lantern didn't even cause any glimmering of the corpses. The wanderer looked him up and down cautiously before Patches continued with his spiel. 

“In any case, have a look, it'll shimmer you blind!” he cackled, moving to the side so the Chosen Undead could have better access to the ledge from which he would launch him from with a swift punt to the backside. Making the slightest of humming noises, the wanderer gave him brief look he couldn't quite identify before heading right to where he needed to be, slowly but surely. Once he began peering down into the inky blackness, the other man, without sparing any time, received a brutal kick straight to his slightly bent over buttocks.

As the man fell down nearly face first into the pit next to the bodies and cried out shrilly in pain and frustration, Patches shouted with maniacal laughter, “This is what I do, my friend! The trinkets I'll be stripping off your corpse; that's the real treasure!” Before he could see the sorry sucker was on his feet and brushing his knees off, he slunk off, out of sight, but not out of mind.

When he made it down to the hole, the other Undead was gone without a single trace he had even been there, save the fact the lady cleric and her two slavishly loyal, none too bright bodyguards were also curiously absent. At first, his spirits sagged at his tremendous loss; then, anxiety struck him down like a smite straight out of the heavens when he realized the wanderer might eventually cross him again and seek revenge. Given how deranged the man seemed….

Ultimately, he decided the best course of action was to head back to the surface, up to Firelink Shrine, and hope either the Undead wouldn't resurface or that he'd at least be amenable to a lot of figurative arse-kissing.

On the way back, Patches encountered very little resistance; the Chosen Undead had eliminated virtually every reanimated skeleton on the way back, even killing the necromancers who rose them continuously when felled. At least he was good for  _ something _ , even if that something didn't include leaving behind his valuables for the picking. 

It was when he was heading out of that dark, dank tunnel that led both in and out of the Catacombs from Firelink that he ran into the Chosen Undead, just standing on the steps out in the cemetery, one hand on his hip and another resting against the wall, his mouth tearing into an incredibly large smirk at the sight of the leather-clad rogue squinting, then panicking at recognizing his form all wide-eyed and slack jawed.

“That was rather cute of you,” the wanderer mused, drumming his fingers against the side of the wall, “If there's one thing you clearly need to learn, it's that you shouldn't try to trick another trickster.” His eyes grazed across the bald-headed man's form toe to head, and he bit the inside of his cheek as if to prevent himself from smiling. Then, he stood straight up, and folded his arms, glaring through his eyelashes at Patches with a mock-stern gaze. 

Patches began to back up into the tunnel.

“Oh, you, I… let's just calm down. Talk about things,” he started nervously with a wavering smile and the grasp on his equipment becoming somewhat shaky, “I did you wrong. But, I didn't mean it. These temptations...” But, he stopped when the wanderer held up an index finger and waved it. 

“Don't lie to me. You weren't exactly subtle about your intentions, so I knew the entire time. It couldn't have been more obvious if you had clearly stated them. Luckily for you, I'm not angry at all. In fact, I'm a bit hurt,” and then that hand slapped over his heart with a loud thump, “I mean, you don't have to kill me in order to strip me.” Then that bloody smile reappeared, all dressed up with a bitten lip, half-lidded eyes, and a deep flush settling across his cheeks. As if on command.

The words incredulously played in his head.  _ You don't have to kill me in order to strip me _ . Patches practically mouthed them out of disbelief. Was this person even  _ real _ ? And having the nerve to mention his lack of subtlety when he was so blatantly proclaiming his lust! Obviously, he lacked any sort of shame… not that Patches had much either, but this was a little too much.

And why was it so  _ compelling _ ? Why was it making him sweat, more than just out of nerves?

The wanderer shifted his weight, then set his arms akimbo against his hips, looking quite pensive and perverse at the same time. At this point, Patches considered fleeing… then remembered that the Chosen Undead would likely find some way to find him, if how he managed to get ahead of him was any indication. “I'm sure,” he swallowed thickly with a titter, “We can come to some sort of… agreement? For you to forgive me?” His eyes darted around as he waited for another likely off the wall response.

“Ahh, dear me. Patches... how about you make it up to me by letting me show you what a real silver tongued rogue bastard can do?” he asked, his hands dropping from his hips to clutch at his belt, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers. It drew Patches' eyes down, then gradually back up again when he tried to look in the man's eyes as he tried to form any sort of sensible reply to such… filth that was slowly but surely having the oddest effect of him that were likely plain as day in his leather trousers. 

“Uhhh,” he stammered, drawing his shoulders and arms in and looking at the Chosen Undead through the sides of his eyes as he turned his head, “alright…?”

A beat later and he hastily added, “Well, I was going to set up shop first. I'm done with looting.” Patches jabbed the ground with the non-pointed end of his spear. The other Undead seemed very intent on blockading the way; he hadn't moved an inch at all, still gazing at him all predatory like. He shuddered. “Could you step aside, mate?” he requested with considerable tension in his shoulders as well as jaw, with his shield beginning to feel leaden in his left hand at this point. A flickering smile played upon the wanderer's face before he backed up, still facing Patches of course, and strafed up to the ledge above, exaggeratedly gesturing to the path he just opened up.

“Going to be a merchant, then?” the wanderer inquired with a slight cock of his head and an eyebrow as he watched the suspicious thief slip forward towards the path that led to the main part of Firelink Shrine in attempt to shake off the attention from the very determined _creep_. That was the word! Creep. Of course, the other Undead began to trail behind him as he headed towards the stone ruins where the Kingseeker Frampt resided. And he did his best to hide his annoyance at the Chosen Undead's unwanted persistence, even if it was stirring more than fear and disgust.

At least he wasn't getting all hands and fingers with him.

When Patches spun around to face the other man, he had stopped in the broken archway and draped himself across it from one part of the original frame to the next. His countenance faded to something more serious and far less threatening. For a moment, his brow wrinkled and he frowned as he clearly had something on his mind. Then finally, he cleared his throat and said, “If you are going to sell things, I do have a few things but ahh, they're located in the Undead Burg. You can go ask Domhnall if you think I'm trying to lure you into a setup. Him and I have made deals before.”

Rolling his head and neck as if attempting to pop his joints or unseat a painful knot, he watched Patches for his response, clearly not quite convinced he'd get the other rogue to agree. Something actually made him feel like the other Undead was actually telling the truth, even if he was one disturbing character.

After thinking it over for a good while, Patches finally replied in a wary tone, “Lead the way” and pointed forwards. Unquestionably, he didn't feel comfortable letting the man out of his sight lest he lead him into a trap and… do whatever foul, abominable things to his body the Chosen had in mind. Probably something painful, humiliating, and disgusting.

Together they strolled through Firelink Shrine, past the bonfire, past the Crestfallen Warrior, past Griggs, until they reached the bridge, with Ira in the lead, of course. The wanderer made it a point to dispatch the Hollow warriors nearby, and given he  _ insisted _ , well, Patches had to let him take care of them all by himself; it would be  _ selfish _ to interfere. Once that was done, without mentioning the total lack of help on Patches' part, the wanderer sheathed his scimtar, gracefully leaped over to the mossy, damp underside of the bridge, and ambled over to where the merchant with the strange horned helm sat, legs folded.

Though he couldn't say his jump over from the ledge to the bridge was quite as adroit as the Chosen Undead's, he made it over in one piece without missing it or face-planting, which really, was the only thing that mattered. And neither the merchant nor the wanderer seemed to be paying attention, given they were busy chatting away about something Patches didn't particularly care to eavesdrop. He was in no particular rush to learn how deep the wanderer's lascivious ulterior motives went.

“Decided to take your sweet time, eh?” Ira chirped with an all too amused smile as he turned his head to look at the bald rogue finally plodding over with hesitation and uncertainty painted all over his smooth face. The wanderer ran his thumb over the stubble on his chin before introducing him, “Ah, yes. Domhnall, this is the man I need a reference for. He's a bit, y'know, skeptical. Says his name is Patches.” He gestured over his shoulder using his thumb at Patches. The merchant looked up at Patches, then back up at the Chosen Undead.

“Aye, a fine trading partner, this one. He has yet to fall through his end of our bargains,” the merchant replied with a certain amount of fondness in his voice for the wanderer. Right after, the Chosen shot him a defiant look that clear meant _I told you so_. Crossing his arms and tapping a foot, but not looking so much as angry as impatient, the wanderer swiveled his body as to face to his newer acquaintance. 

Grinning broadly enough that his teeth shewn, but not so much that it made him look like the madman he surely was, the Chosen Undead said, “Let's get a move on, shall we, while the sun is still out?” He bounced forward, looking over his shoulder once to make sure Patches was following before he leaped back over so as to follow the hill up to the Undead Burg. It wasn't until they were splashing through the partly run-down, cramped aqueduct that they began to speak to each other again.

“So… why exactly do you have a store of treasure in the Undead Burg? Why not around the shrine or… the Parish?” Patches asked the other Undead as they reached the exit that led out into the Undead Burg on the left and promptly went up the stairs, the bright light jolting his eyes that had adjusted to the dim lighting of the tunnel. The wanderer continued forward, but slowed down slightly as he made it to the Hollow warriors patrolling the upper courtyard. Seconds later, and he pulled out his scimitar, slashing at the haphazardly flailing adversaries. After he killed four of them, he turned to face his companion, curved sword still in hand.

He finally explained his logic with a sigh, “All sorts of people run along through Firelink so I can't trust my things to always be where I leave them,” a queer grin swept across his face as he drawled out that sentence, “The Parish, well, doesn't have nearly as many creature comforts. Sometimes I just want to rest behind a door. Surely that's as good a set of reasons as any other?” Ira's other hand found rest on his hip, which he of course tilted upwards, and he made an effort to stand up straight to make himself look taller than he was, as if daring Patches to argue. Turquoise eyes scanned him over, taking him in as more of a curiosity than a meal.

“Fair enough,” he replied simply, scratching the back of his neck with an awkward, forced smile. Thankfully, he didn't have to request for the wanderer to just turn around and take them to his location; he quickly spun around, his coat swaying rhythmically as he did so and then marched on forward, his steps somewhat more aggressive and loud on the stone before. They ended up turning right at the section of housing at the far end, walking through an abandoned small warehouse of sorts, and up into a higher section of the city, teaming with even more Hollows.

The Chosen Undead surged forward with a vicious snarl, hopping to the side to quickly avoid a crossbow bolt from forward and above to the shoulder and swinging at one of three Hollows who formed a circle around him. How much further into the Burg would they end up going? This was getting ridiculous. “Oh, for heaven's sake...” Patches groused under his breath, readying his pike with one hand and holding up his greatshield with the other and rushing to the side of the wanderer, who while wasn't fairing badly, just wasn't progressing fast enough for the likes of the shifty black leather garbed thief, between all the stopping just to kill a bunch of bloody Hollows.

While Patches jabbed one of the gaunt, mad undead through the chest, Ira sliced through the other with a surprisingly elegant motion with his wrist. Then, once the Hollow was good and dead, he stormed up the stairs on the left of the small building and unceremoniously plunged the end of his blade through the crossbow Hollow's exposed face. When it hit the ground with a thunk and the smallest pooling of blood, the Chosen Undead scratched at his nose with his free hand.

“Finally decided to help me? I'm truly honored that you decided to join me after all,” the wanderer sassed, looking down at Patches as he climbed the stairs and giving him a wry grin. Before the bald Undead could voice an offended response, Ira piped in with a beckoning wave of his hand, “It's not too much farther now. Aid me a bit more and it'll go by faster, I promise.” At least the sun was still up at this point. The Chosen Undead rotated on his heels, then began to stride towards the bridge leading to another series of buildings with large apertures that indicated it was housing another group of Hollows.

This time, motivated by his desire to just get it over with and appease the wanderer, Patches joined in the fray, taking one side and poking at enemies behind his shield while Ira preferred to get up close and personal to slash at foes, jumping to the side or rolling when they tried to hit. The battle was over in a scant minute, with both the men hardly breaking a sweat, though Ira panted a tad just from how offensive and involved his attack style was in comparison to Patches' more relaxed, defensive one. Going through an open barred gate, Ira lead the other Undead down a series of sets.

Almost immediately on the way down, the stench of burning corpses hit Patches' nose like a ton of bricks. Noticing the other man's grimace and groans of disgust, Ira chuckled and quipped, “Yeah, that part leaves a bit to be desired, but it's out of the way and there are buildings! With doors! It mostly keeps out the smell.” Already, just from the top of the next set of stairs, through the smoke and the heatwaves of the roaring fire dancing along the withered dead bodies, he could see a skulking pack of dogs lurking, waiting for the two of them to reach the bottom of the stairs and pounce.

It just didn't end, did it?

In fact, one of the dogs didn't even wait for them to reach the ground, instead going in for the kill with a growl and launching itself at Ira, who quickly and harshly brought down the scimitar on its neck, spilling bright red blood on the green mossy stone of the stairs. It died with a pitiful whining keen, and the Chosen Undead kicked its body down the steps, leaping over it towards a well in the courtyard, surrounded by stone brick residential buildings. He darted around it, waving his sword at the nearest barking dog and proceeding to fling himself at it in a flurry of sword slashes and quick movements of the feet; his clothing swished with each of his adroit maneuvers.

Before Patches could scramble to the other Undead's side, the other dog sprung into the air at Ira. Both the dog and the wanderer hit the ground, with a loud cry on Ira's behalf, before stabbing his blade into the animal's side not once but twice. It died with a snarl on its breath, not before clearly staining his attire. Shoving the now slain creature off his chest, Ira stood up and looked down at his armor, wrinkling his nose and curling his lips in disgust at the blood and bits of straggly fur and skin blanketing him.

“Ugh! Well, we're literally feet from my little hidey-hole now. C'mon, Patches. I uhh, hope you don't mind if I change into something that isn't soaked once we get in side. Now don't give me that look, I didn't say I'd change right in front of you,” the other man huffed as he slid his scimitar back into its sheathe. He began to stroll down towards the line of houses towards the right, whistling as he did so, until he finally reached a door. Turning the knob, he pulled it open and out, then motioned for Patches to come over, rolling the wrist of his extended right arm and hand. 

The sun was beginning to set, and the sky began to turn fantastic shades of yellow and orange, though had yet to reach deep blue and purple.

Letting his host shuffle into the house first, Patches followed into its dark interior.

Sheepishly, the Chosen Undead said as he fumbled in the dark “Ahh, let me light a candle. Close the door for me?” Nodding silently, the other man closed the door softly, noting how it squeaked on its hinges. At least it closed all the way. And indeed, the pungent malodor that had permeated the square was mostly gone, though it lurked in the background.

The strident sound of a rock striking steel filled Patches' ears, then suddenly the room filled with warm, yellow light. The interior of the building wasn't the largest, but it looked cozy enough; on the opposite side, there was an unlit, disused hearth, with an empty pot sitting upon a metal implement used to elevate it. Against the left wall, there was a small, rickety table with two chairs, one of which was missing its back. Additionally, there was a narrow stairwell on the right to an even smaller room upstairs, likely where the bed was.

He rotated to face Ira, who was holding a lit candelabra, who promptly placed it on the bare table.

“I'll go upstairs now so I can get out of,” he gestured at his befouled attire, waving his right hand over the splattering of the drying blood, “this. Uhh, make yourself at home?” the Chosen Undead almost mumbled as if he were embarrassed or irresolute, or on the way to becoming either of those things. Without waiting for input from his guest, he shot up the stairs, his boots heavy on the wooden steps as he made his way to the loft. 

Laying his large, rectangular shield and his spear against the wall close by the table, Patches plopped down on the chair that was fully intact, folded his arms, and leaned until his sternum was resting atop the table. He drummed his fingers against his arms as he stared at the flickering flames of the candles. The wait seemed to go on forever; he observed the wax melting into little pools and the small puffs of smoke rising from the individual candles. Eventually though, the sounds of the Chosen Undead mincing down the stairs startled him from his near-trance.

He lifted his stare from the table to the man at his right, then raised one of his hairless eyebrows; the wanderer had changed entirely out of his clothing into a new set, sans boots of course (as it was “his” house, however his feet were not bare). The man was now in an entirely black outfit, the same kind he saw that sorcerer they passed by earlier, and that had the effect of making him look both slimmer and taller given how they hugged his frame.

And without the hood, his long reddish hair became more apparent. It fell down to the middle of his back, and he had tied it loosely in the back as to be out of his face. He was definitely more attractive without that hair-raising smile and the hood to obscure his features. Still wasn't right in the head, though.

“The chest with my various goods is upstairs,” Ira informed him dryly before signaling for him to follow after a period of awkward silence of the two just studying each other. With a sigh, Patches pushed himself up off the table and onto his feet, the chair scratching the wooden floor and groaning as he backed up and stood. He shadowed the wanderer up the stairs that creaked under both of their feet, up to a room about half the size of the ground room made up of a small cot that looked very lived in sitting in the far right corner, a single stool behind the headboard with a lit candle on a candlestick, a chest at the other end of the bed, and an armoire off to the side of the headboard.

Whistling an obnoxiously upbeat tune, the Chosen Undead bent over to open the latch on the chest, then flicked it open. He began digging through it, falling to his knees and occasionally throwing objects onto the bed, everything from weapons to upgrade items to rings with unique and useful properties. It took just enough time that Patches scrutinized (no, not admired, not admired) the wanderer's form, noting his muscle mass seemed to be located in his upper arms and legs. It was only fair, given Ira's unabashed want he so nakedly expressed out in the open.

He felt far more at ease knowing he hadn't walked into some elaborate ruse.

Once he found everything he wanted to show Patches, the other Undead stood up, leaned against the frame of the cot, and folded his arms. “Everything's on the bed. I, uhh, think you'll at least find something worthwhile?” he said with a twist of an eyebrow, angling his head up and spacing his feet apart.

Approaching the bed, Patches quickly glanced over the loot, occasionally glancing at Ira out of the corners of his eye. Not because the Chosen Undead had lied; on the contrary, the fact he had been  _ entirely honest  _ and even undersold what he had caught him off guard. The wanderer had various rings from Carim (one of which he was sure he had seen on that Embraced Knight Lautrec's gauntlets), even demon titanite and a Ghost Blade that he was showing off. 

And everything he had said earlier about,  _ ugh, _ something about his tongue screamed in his brain.

“What exactly are you playing at?” he asked as he swung his head around to look at the wanderer, narrowing his eyes.

Turning his head, the Chosen Undead replied with a disturbing amount of coolness, “I'm not opposed to souls or bartering but… well, I suppose I need to make what  _ I  _ want out of this deal clearer,” and a smile lit his face more than the way the candle illuminated them both. Licking his dry lips, he continued, “To put it bluntly,  _ Patches _ , what I want doesn't require much out of you beyond your consent. You're free to decide you'd rather just give me souls or something else of yours in exchange but, let's be honest. We're both Undead, and I know precisely how lonely it gets.”

Patches rocked back and forth on his haunches, feeling a little uncertain about what was about to spill out of the wanderer's mouth, about what sort of depravity he was going to ask for.

“To get to the point, what I want is this: I lay on the bed, you strip out of all that form-fitting leather, you sit on my face, and I stick my tongue up your arse until you cum,” he continued, putting specific emphasis of the last word, of course. His grin was full-fledged now, softened by the gentle glow in the room.

Patches blinked, unable to form a coherent answer to the Chosen Undead's request right away. In fact, he was puzzling over as to how such a thing would even work. It being a bizarre request was putting it lightly; it wasn't something he'd have thought to have done to himself at all. On the other hand, Ira seemed pretty sure that it would actually be pleasurable to be on receiving end. Eyes raking over the other Undead's form last time, he at last responded with a reluctant confession, “Well, fine. And yeah, it does get a bit dull.”

The Chosen Undead began to replace the items back into the chest, wordless as he hauled the items back to where they belonged. He then shut the chest and ambled back towards the bed.

His mouth became dry as Ira moved to sit on the bed, back against the wall, and began to undo the clasps and laces on his black sorcerer's shirt. As he pulled it off of him, exposing his pale chest dotted with freckles, and set it on the floor, he explained with a small laugh, “I don't want to ruin the shirt.” He then swiveled his body to lay down in the bed with his legs propped up, laying his hands on his chest and folding his fingers together.

His upper arms definitely had a bit of definition to them but his chest and stomach were mostly flat, nondescript planes, not that was necessarily a bad thing. The only bit of body hair on his torso was a line of light hair, perhaps blond or perhaps a light ginger hue, terribly difficult to see in the light, extending up from below his waistband up just a little past his navel. Tapping his thumbs against his chest, he looked up at Patches expectantly.

“Have you been with men before?” he asked in earnest as the bald-headed Undead began to nervously take off his pauldrons. 

As he lowered himself to lay the hide pauldron on the floor and began to undo the metal one, Patches replied, “Yes. I can't say I've been with that many.” He stood up, watching the rise and fall of the other man's chest, feeling like his own heart was going to vibrate out of his chest, it was beating so hard. Gulping, he peeled off his gloves and unbuttoned the black leather chest armor, all the while observing how the Chosen Undead's breath stuttered in anticipation. “What about you?” he questioned out of curiosity, his hands hovering over his belt as he looked down at the shirtless man on the bed.

Once the belt was off and Patches dropped what he had just taken off to the floor and kicked it all in one pile with the tip of his boots, Ira spoke, “Obviously I  _ have _ ,” he propped himself up on his elbows, “And this doesn't have to be wooden, you know. As I'm sure you've noticed, I think you're quite the handsome devil. Perhaps you would be okay with me touching you? You don't have to touch me in return, not at all. In fact, I expect you  _ not _ to.” 

Baring his slender chest as he slipped off the leather top and dropped it into his little hoard of armor pieces, the other Undead shrugged, “Fine.” The Chosen Undead smiled warmly, reassuringly, and sat up.

Slowly, Ira rose from the bed, toeing up to the thief and wrapping his arms around his waist. Pressing a smacking kiss to the tip of the taller man's chin, he purred, “If you wish, I could help you get out of all that armor.” He then planted gentle kisses along Patches' neck, who closed his eyes. Indeed, it was… nice to be touched again, as the thief kept his hands to himself, letting the sensation of lips and hands on his bare skin sink in, send electricity down his spine.

“Sure, get on with it,” he rasped with a panting breath, feeling the Chosen Undead's breath on his clavicles, then his navel. Not longer after, a tongue probed inside of it, making him shiver. His eyes fluttered open as deft fingers began to unbuckle the leather knee caps all the while something, almost assuredly a tongue, began pressing and dragging across the bulge of his crotch, which at this point, was awfully tight and uncomfortable. Immediately, his eyes went down to Ira, who was on his knees, tracing the outline of his groin, as well as where his thighs met his groin, with his tongue, all the while pulling off the knee armor.

Ira only stopped to say, “You're gonna need to lift your feet so I can help with your boots, sweetheart.” He looked up at Patches, smiling mischievously as his hands caressed the thief's boots almost reverently. Giving the other man a quick nod, the thief hiked his leg up, allowing the Chosen Undead to slide it off, not before he kissed the top of the toe box. Then, Patches lifted his other leg, his gaze fixated on the other man looking up at him all half-lidded and tonguing up the boot before too tugging the footwear off.

It shouldn't have been as arousing as it was and yet…

“Isn't that disgusting?” he questioned Ira with a cocked head, his husky voice betraying any and all attempts to lie to himself about the effect said actions had on him. 

Once on his feet, fingers curling into Patches' waistband, he replied with a chuckle, then a sultry croon, “Not when it's  _ your _ boots.” Ira grinned lopsidedly, his teeth glistering in the light, and added, “I'm honestly surprised that line of thought didn't come across your mind when I gave that request for you to, you know, to eat your arse out earlier.” He then glided behind the taller man and worked on unlacing his trousers, all the while peppering the bald thief's neck and shoulders with kisses. 

Patches snorted, rolling his eyes at the Chosen's choice of words,“Now, I'll have you know that's very,  _ very _ different.” He protested as the other Undead stopped fiddling with his trousers to listen raptly with an expression filled with mirth, “I mean, my boots have been through mud and gods know what else.”

As if on cue, Ira opened up the man's loosened pants, freeing the other Undead's bare erection. “Well well,  _ hello _ there,” the wanderer snickered as he began to slide the leather garment off of Patches' hips, watching it bob slightly and twitch. “No small clothes for you? Mmm, how delicious,” he trilled seductively against the man's neck, watching those black, tight trousers finally fall to the ground. 

A considerable, persistent warmth began to creep up Patches' face as the wanton compliment made him feel actually a bit embarrassed. And of course, it had the effect of exciting him even more, making it increasingly difficult for him to keep his hands to himself, lest it lead him into having any… complicated feelings.

Then, those hands (which weren't cold, thank heavens) made their way to his rear, and  _ squeezed _ , just hard and sudden enough to make him squeak. And that was just mortifying because, after all, grown men shouldn't squeak.

“I knew I wasn't mistaken when I thought you looked rather gifted in that department. I'm beginning to think you're _almost_ perfect,” Ira laughed loudly, kissing along the other man's jaw and breathing deeply through his mouth. Patches could most definitely feel the other man's erection pressing incessantly into his nude backside, only spurring on his own lust.

Gods, he was beginning to sweat, and it didn't seem that warm in the room until now.

He turned slightly to look at the side of the Chosen Undead's face, fully aware what he must looked like, all heavy-lidded and full of want, likely flushed as well. It would be so easy to lean in, give in to his desire to actually  _ touch _ the other man, to actually feel those lips with his own.

Patches must have been staring at Ira's lips for a while because the man positively beamed from ear to ear and asked quietly, near a whisper, “Would you like me to kiss you?” His face moved in closer, so much there was scant room between theirs. Licking his lips, the bald Undead merely nodded, refusing to actually give voice to the words.

Ira's lips were quite soft, and lingered only for the briefest moment. When he pulled away, Patches felt a tinge of impatience. He swiveled around, grabbed the shorter man by the waistband of his pants, and groused, “Ugh, kiss me like you mean it. You're not my mum.”

'With pleasure, sweet-” Ira's answer was muffled by Patches' mouth that began to move against his, perhaps not the most experienced his had touched, but passionate nonetheless. When a tongue made it between his lips, the Chosen Undead moaned into the other man's mouth and happily allowed the kiss to deepen, wrapping his arms around his neck.

After taking the initial leap, Patches was more than happy to let the more experienced of the two lead. His hands even ended up roaming up to clutch at Ira's waist, delicately tracing lines with the pads of his fingers on the skin there.

Reluctantly, the two men pulled apart, both breathing heavily and gazing at each other heatedly. “So… how about I get on the bed now, eh?” the Chosen Undead grinned with his arms still wound around the naked man's neck, shifting on his feet slightly and biting his bottom lip.

Patches gave him a curt nod of his head, letting go of the other man's waist so as to let him pull away. Ira's arms uncurled from his neck, tearing away from him in order to lay with his chest up on the bed, arms at his side, head angled to gaze at him. An encouraging smile swept across the Chosen Undead's face as the thief tentatively inched forward towards the bed, stopping when his thighs touched the frame of the bed.

The nude thief took a deep breath. Well, it was now or never. If he didn't like it, he could just call the whole thing off.

Right as Patches turned to face towards the end of the bed, rather than the headboard, and lifted one of his legs, the Chosen Undead tried to assure him in a quite pleasant voice, “Sweetheart, relax. You're fine,” he chuckled softly before continuing, “in more ways than one. No need to be so embarrassed.”

Though he absolutely did believe Ira, Patches' nerves refused to calm down and his heart refused to slow its frantic rhythm in his chest, so he forced the first leg over to rest on its knee by the far side of the other man's head. The second followed on the opposite side, and he felt the mattress groan softly once all his weight was on the bed. Still, he wasn't quite in the place where he needed to be; he hovered slightly over the supine Undead, definitely not low enough to allow him to comfortably… eat Patches' ass out like a damn  _ feast _ . He felt the other man's hands soothingly caress his thighs, starting from the inner thighs dangerously close to his erection, then roaming over to the outer half. Eventually, the Chosen Undead's hands wandered over to cup at his buttocks.

Closing his eyes, Patches lowered himself, feeling the scorching heat of shame in his cheeks, until he could feel more skin against his buttocks. He asked, struggling a bit to find the words, “Am I… am I low enough?” Instead of a verbal answer, the hands on his arse groped his flesh, then he felt the soft, wet warmth of a tongue brush, right where he thought it would feel more  _ weird _ than  _ erotic _ . His mind certainly told him it should feel odd, and yet his body responded otherwise; he literally bit his tongue to keep from vocalizing how wonderful it felt (in addition to being near-ticklish initially) and the fact he was with a  _ stranger _ .

When the sensation didn't relent, when it made his cock  _ throb _ in time with his heartbeat, when his spine sung with it, when it made him unable to stay still with only Ira's grip going to his hips to keep him in place, Patches quit fighting and a long, deep groan tumbled out of his lips. He grabbed at the blanket and sheets below. “How... in the devil... did you figure… this one out?” he panted, swearing that he felt the Chosen Undead pull him down even closer to his face with the way he felt the other man's stubble graze his rear. Not that he expected an answer when the person he was addressing had his tongue occupied, working its way into that tight ring of muscle.

It was all too tempting to begin stroking his aching member, but he didn't want to get ahead of himself. He was actually a bit curious of Ira could manage to get him to release without reaching over to jerk him off. Instead, winding the blanket beneath them in his hands, he moaned, “This shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't.” He finally opened his eyes, and looked at the body beneath them. The Chosen Undead's trousers were tented and straining, and every so often his heels would dig into the bed.

Was Ira enjoying it every bit as much as he was?

“Not that I'm complaining about your prowess but,” Patches gulped, his pelvis rocking with the gentlest motion and his voice coming out close to a desperate whine as his thought was interrupted by a wave of pleasure, “Oh gods, please don't stop.” Thank heavens the other Undead was too busy to laugh at his plea, but he couldn't help his outburst. “Weak at the knees” didn't even begin to describe how he felt. Every lap, every wiggle sent a keen shock of ecstasy straight up his tailbone to surge into the tips of his fingers and toes. 

In a sudden urge, Patches reached one of his hands around and felt for the other man's hair. His fingers mussed it, twined through it, before he swayed into the stimulation. Ira's fingers at his hips pressed in softly, with thumbs rubbing circles on the nubs of his pelvic bones. With every slight roll of his hips, Patches' leaking prick bobbed just slightly, upright and proud in response and heavy between his kneeling legs.

It felt too much yet not enough at the same time, and he was feeling greedy.

After grinding against his face again, the wanderer had settled on grabbing Patches' buttocks and kneading, making no real effort to separate the cheeks. The tongue alternated between shallow penetration, running around the inside ring of the circle, and trailing the flat over the entire thing, but not in such quick succession it was jarring. There was more than enough time for him to adjust before the change.

Letting go of the bedding with his other hand, he brought it up to his mouth and firmly bit into the fleshy part of his index finger between the first and second knuckle. “You…” the bald-headed rogue whimpered, yes,  _ whimpered _ as though longing for a remedy for a plight, as though begging for his life. And he'd be more than proud to admit it at this point. His grip on the other hand's hair tightened as he writhed into the body part, his movement becoming more confident and smooth. 

Sweat had begun to make their skin glisten in the persisting glow of the candle, though Patches in particular was coated in a sheen. He could certainly feel it, not that he cared at the moment, though the heat from such carnal activity  _ was _ something else.

If it weren't for the hot puffs of air he felt against the flesh of his arse, he'd be concerned about Ira not getting enough air. Not overly concerned, mind you, just concerned that the man would pass out and he'd have to finish himself off. That's what he was telling himself, at any rate.

“What... other tricks do you have up your sleeve?” Patches grunted wantonly, the hand once in his mouth gripping the bedding once more as he threw back his head. His knees, jabbing into the cot, were beginning to wobble, as was the rest of his legs. With his every jerk of the hips that progressively became more rough and frantic, the bed seemed to creak. He stopped breathing through his nose; now, he panted, which wasn't aiding in the parched condition of the inside of his mouth.

Neither were his moans, for that matter, not that he was very conscious of them at this point. They poured out of his mouth like a fountain.

The hands on his rear fondled him more firmly, though not rough enough to cause any pain, just enough that it let Patches know the Chosen was more than a little into it even if he wasn't getting anything physical in return. The hand in the wanderer's hair roamed down, at first gently scratching in a way that was more like a massage than anything else. In the end, he ended up unintentionally undoing the man's ponytail as he played with it, occasionally  _ grabbing _ it as the other man tongued his entrance. The thief shivered and groaned mumbled curses in rapture, delighting at the decadence of the act.

He wasn't sure if he should regret kicking the Chosen Undead down that hole or not. It did result in  _ this _ , after all, and he couldn't make  _ that _ up if he tried, not that anyone would believe him in the first place.

At least once, Patches felt one of the hands leave its station from his arse to rest atop of his hand in the man's hair. He might have brushed his thumb over Ira's hand in reaction to that and he refused to feel any sort of shame about that. No one could given him any grief over it. Human contact, human  _ physical  _ contact, was  _ nice. Especially _ this kind. 

“When I mentioned temptations,” Patches croaked, breathy and giddy from pleasure wracking his body, “this really wasn't what I had in mind. My _gods_ yes.” The Chosen Undead's hand that wasn't frequently trying to tangle with the rogue's hand in his hair gave his ass quick smack that was loud, but not really painful. The hand then rubbed the area of the impact to allay what little “harmful” consequences it had before the tempo of the tongue quickened, intensified, as though the wanderer thought he were pure honey.

His knees squeezed together into Ira's side, bearing down further into the mattress. Keeping himself upright was becoming a task in and of itself, but was it worth it! Even if the noises he was making would normally be unseemly and horribly embarrassing to be doing with a brand new acquaintance (though he honestly had no idea how… different being vocal with a regular lover would be). But… the Chosen clearly didn't mind, even seemed to like it given how each new noise produced kneading of his buttocks and gusts of warmth against his skin and the brief cessation of activity that could very well indicate muffled moans, so why should he?

Searing hot pleasure had begun to coil tighter and tighter in his groin, making his cries that more anguished, that much louder and less coherent, as Ira's tongue expertly worked its magic. Every muscle in his body tensed, especially those in his legs, and he curled his toes into the bed. Patches arched his back with the hand in the other Undead's hair trembling tremendously.

And then, his orgasm hit him like an entire herd of stampeding horses. Gritting his teeth together, he cried out stridently, nearly choking on the words, “Oh, by the fiendish crows of Velka!” Over and over, for several seconds, he sprayed over the Chosen Undead's chest and stomach. It left him feeling completely boneless, and he nearly crumpled over entirely onto the lower half of the Chosen Undead. With some of his last remaining strength, he swung himself over to the small gap between the other man and the wall.

“That was...” Patches gasped, resting his chin on the top of the shorter man's head, how transparently _tender_ an act it was be damned, “Fantastic.” He found himself playing with the wanderer's hair with both of his hands, consumed by the afterglow and desiring affection.

“I do believe I told you so,” Ira replied with a grin, placing a kiss against the other man's neck, “Let me get up and get a handkerchief to clean myself off, okay?” When the other man withdrew his hands, the Chosen Undead sat up, looking down at the large, milky mess splattered over his torso and giggled. Then, he stood, walking to the armoire to yank open the doors. After digging through it, he finally found small, clean white cloths to wipe off his chest with. Once he disposed of them in the same pile as his sullied wanderer's coat, he returned to the bed and laid down beside Patches, who was very much still recovering.

“You don't have to stay the night but… I wouldn't be opposed, I won't lie. I like you, despite the bruise you gave my ass,” the Chosen Undead whispered in his ear, using his right index finger to languidly draw circles on the other man's chest that still rose and fell quickly out of exertion. 

Both licking and biting his lips, the other man replied while looking away from Ira, “Well, it is dark outside, and it is safe in here.”  _ And you're warm, you've been awfully nice, I'm lonely, and I'd like a repeat of tonight sometime _ he neglected to say, though they did sting on his tongue like strong, bootleg liquor. 

For once, it dawned on him the other man hadn't met his climax; he hadn't even touched himself the entire time. And from a cursory glance down at the man's crotch, the other Undead was still very much aroused, very much interested in sexual attention from him.

Motivated partly out of his desire to please the Chosen Undead, partly out of his selfishness to ensure similar performances (both of which were previously foreign to him), Patches then proposed as he snaked his hands down to the other man's pants, his voice admittedly a little hoarse from being weary, “How about I get you off for being my gracious host?” He flashed the other Undead a lewd, crooked smile.

The surprised grin on Ira was almost immediate. “Oh, I've love that. Go ahead,” the wanderer said with considerable delight, intently watching the bald thief swiftly undo the ties of his sorcerer's pants, then pull them and his small clothes down to the middle of his thighs. The Chosen Undead's member, which thankfully wasn't much bigger than his own, slapped down against the exposed flesh. To his utter lack of surprise, the curls of the long-haired Undead's pubic hair were coppery.

Patches drawled down until his head was level with the man's crotch. Looking Ira in the eye, he gave it an experimental stroke with one hand, peeling back the prepuce in the process, before gingerly licking the tip. He was surprised it didn't taste too much different from the usual faint saltiness of skin, which he found very encouraging. Even more confidence inspiring was the tempting moan from the Chosen Undead's mouth and the fluttering of his eyelids.

But gods, did he feel completely spent.

Without anymore hesitation, his lips engulfed the head, eagerly observing Ira's eyes open and stare at him half-lidded. The Chosen Undead gasped as Patches' mouth sunk down on his member, then hissed with a wince.

“Watch your teeth, sweetheart. Relax your jaw a little bit more so they don't drag,” Ira cooed, one of his hands reaching out to settle on top of the other man's head. When Patches attempted to loosen his jaw, drooling a bit down the Chosen's prick, all the while still holding his gaze, he added in awe, “Holy hell that looks... amazing.” Truly, he did look mesmerized, his irises very subtly rising and falling with each bob of the thief's head. He even arced so very slightly up into the mouth wrapped around his length, with his heels even sinking stubbornly into the cot.

Getting down to the base proved to be a difficult task; his gag reflex got in the way repeatedly, but the wanderer didn't seem to mind. “You're doing just fine,” Ira told him affectionately while caressing one of Patches' cheeks, “If you can't get it all in your throat, you can't get it all in your throat. You can use your hand, you know.”

Flickering his eyelids, Patches curled a hand around the base, not too tight, and began stroking upwards as he used the broad side of his tongue to stripe from half-way down the shaft up to the slit, eyes locked with the Chosen Undead. “Yes, like that,” Ira moaned, his voice incredibly rich as he shut his eyes and grinned that awkwardly wide smile, much less intimidating when he wielded it in the throes of passion, “That's much, much better, sweetheart.” The man's fingernails dug into his skull, while the other hand clung to the bed.

Seeing the other Undead fall apart despite his clumsy inexperience was exhilarating. Why'd he ever refuse to reciprocate before, when he went about finding reasonably handsome enough men to give him a quick wank or suck him off?

Thinking back to what he found worked when someone else was on their knees pleasuring him, Patches took half of the length into his mouth, trying to run his tongue along the underside without gagging or without salivating everywhere. Truly, that was an impossible task; he had no idea that the couple of other men he had allowed to fellate him managed it. Eventually, he just settled on the not gagging part while his hand continued to pump the Chosen Undead's length up to where his lips were around it. He must have liked it sloppy, given he opened his eyes to look at Patches and bit his lower lip.

“You're a quick enough learner. Imagine how good you'd get if you did this more often. Then, I might have to visit you at Firelink Shrine quite often to ah, trade,” the wanderer laughed huskily, caressing the nape of the thief's neck, which had him quivering.

The suggestion that had slipped from the Chosen Undead's mouth made Patches stop. With an obscene, wet pop, he took the prick out of his mouth, hand still at task, to ask in pleased disbelief, “You want to do this again? Really?” He couldn't help but smile, looking up at Ira with bright eyes.

“ _Only_ if you want to,” the wanderer punctuated this by tapping the end of Patches' nose, “As I said, I do like you, boot to the arse notwithstanding, even though I saw it coming. You got yourself some strong legs,” Ira replied with a fond smile that turned lewd at the end. After his eyes roamed over Patches' form, clearly fixating on his back side, he added, “No wonder you've been… blessed with such a bountiful rear. Really, I'm a bit jealous.”

Eyes darting away bashfully for a moment, the bald-headed rogue returned to his task. Propping his head up with his free hand, elbow on bed, he angled his head slightly. He made sure to keep his eyes open during pauses, as he felt the moment he stopped activity and closed his eyes, he'd doze off. Patches took it upon himself to wag his tongue across the small vertical strip of skin where the shaft and head met in between engulfing half the member with his mouth, occasionally swallowing around it. Maybe he didn't do it perfectly, and maybe it wasn't entirely graceful, but the effort had to count for something.

And boy, did it count. The Chosen Undead closed his eyes, letting his head fall back, and groaned, “I'm getting ah… pretty close. Yeah, please, keep doing that, if you would.” The hand on Patches' neck petted his head erratically, all the while the thighs the thief hovered over were visibly tensing. Shifting his gaze from Ira's face down to the man's thighs, he picked up the pace with both his hand and his mouth. Soft slurping noises filled the room.

It wasn't long before he was watching the wanderer's mouth fall open and the hands worrying the sheets drift up to his face. Pulling his messy hair, he keened, his voice deep and desperate, “Oh Patches.” His entire body jerked upwards for a moment, and the prick in the thief's mouth pulsated before it filled his mouth with bursts of fluid that tasted of a combination of faint bitterness (though not offensively so), salt, and only the barest hint of estus flask.

Patches continued to stroke Ira's cock through the climax, feeling that if he moved his lips, tongue, or mouth he'd just end up making a mess. He managed to swallow it all, rather easily to boot, before popping the man's softening cock out of his mouth once the orgasm had subsided. Wiping his mouth, he glanced at the panting Undead, noting how damp his hairline was and how darkened his face was; though the lighting wasn't particularly bright, he could definitely tell Ira was flushed. It was actually fairly charming how disheveled he looked.

Patches _made_ him that way, reduced him to that state. And that fact made him swell with pride.

At some point, though, his fatigue got the better of him because the last thing he remembered was Ira wobbly getting up to latch the door downstairs  and blow out the candles.

Pale gold light of dawn filtered in from the window, leaving rays on the bed they were sleeping on, stirring him from his softly snoring sleep. His nose was resting in the crook of the Chosen's neck. At some point, Ira had dragged Patches up and draped him over the other Undead's body and pulled the covers over them both. Breathing in the scent of the man's skin, as well as the smell of sweat and sex from last night, Patches sighed and nuzzled the other Undead's neck before drifting back to a comfortable, sound slumber.

Certainly, he ended up getting valuable goods out of their little deal, but what he ended up treasuring far more was that lithe little redhead who, true to his word, frequently visited him at Firelink, though for far more than just sex.


End file.
